Ain't for the Faint of Heart
by nikonic
Summary: Even the devil knows that I love her.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I've been out of the writing game for awhile, and the Jessica Jones fever hit hard. I can't get this pair out of my head, whether it's friendships or romance. I don't own Marvel, Netflix, or any of that. Please review. Let me know if you'd like to see a continuation. Also if you have head canons or stories you would like to see, please let me know. I'm always looking for some inspiration. This particular inspiration I found while obsessively refreshing the #Jessica Jones tag on tumblr. Please enjoy.

"I've been asking the impossible of you. I wanted you to love me, but you've never loved anyone. You're not even capable of it.

With one exception."

In all of his sick and perverted delusions, Kilgrave finally got one thing right. Even the devil knows that I love her. Recklessly. Dangerously. Unconditionally. With everything that I have and everything that I am. He is finally beginning to understand, and I'll kill him for it.

As Trish walks to him, leans into him, kisses him like she means it, my blood boils. I love her. I'm in love with her and all the sappy shit you see in those horrible chick-flicks. I can't remember a time I wasn't. She is my weakness and my strength. She's the one that I give a damn about (more than occasionally, all the fucking time), and she's the voice in my head telling me to be good and save the goddamn world. She is everything. She is my world. She is the light in all of awful, twisted, fucked-up darkness. There isn't a damn thing I wouldn't do to keep her safe.

Those beautiful green eyes are filled with fear as Kilgrave steps closer and closer, driven by the excitement that he can control me again. Bastard. You won't win this time. Not when her life hangs in the balance. Over his shoulder, I meet her gaze. "I love you." It's not the first time I've said it. Hopefully it won't be the last - not after all of this, not after everything.

His bones snap like nothing under my hands, and my stomach immediately churns, revolted at the thought of taking a human life. Not a fucking human, I remind myself. A goddamn superhuman psychopath with a stalking obsession and a disregard for any and all life. Somewhere, deep inside my mind, a voice that sounds oddly like Trish insists for the 900th time that it isn't my fault. Then I remember Hope, feeling the life drain out of her. It wasn't by my hand, but it hurts all the same. Scrambling to the edge of the dock, I retch violently into the water.

God I could use a fucking drink.

For once in her life, Jeri isn't a complete asshole of a human being. Trust me when I say it's a pleasant surprise. I wasn't particularly looking forward to spending the rest of my life in jail. Still it would have been worth it. His death is justice. His death means the end of a lot of pain and suffering for the residents of Hell's Kitchen. Maybe if I keep repeating that to myself I'll stop feeling like such a piece of shit. Right now the only thing that helps is that Trish is safe. It's the only thing that still matters.

Then I'm free, walking out of a police station like a handful of cops didn't just see me snap a guy's neck. It's over. It's surreal. I don't have a single damn clue what to do next. Trish leans against her car, and for a second, she looks surprised to see me. Relief washes over her angelic features. She wraps me in her arms in two large steps. God it feels good. It feels right.

It's all of five seconds before my brain starts reminding me how dangerous I am for her. How life threatening I am to the woman I love. Reluctantly, selfishly, I hug her back because I want this moment of celebration before I run. To save her. To protect her. Everything she has suffered since Dorothy has been directly linked to me. Even Simpson. She stopped breathing. She nearly died. Because I broke my damn ribs and couldn't properly fight a roid-raging cop on damn combat drugs.

She's better off without me. Even if it shatters my soul to walk away from her again.

"C'mon. Let's get you home."

All the thoughts in my head swirl tumultuously like a goddamn tornado of self-loathing and guilt. How can I tell her what she means to me? That what happens next is what I have to do to keep her safe? I need to tell her that I love her, that I've always fucking loved her. I have to tell her that I'm sorry. For everything. For letting her get hurt, for letting that sick son-of-a-bitch get close enough to touch her. For roping her into all of this in the first damn place. I need her to know that she's my best friend. I need to find a way to express all the feelings I've buried for years.

Instead I say nothing because that's the kind of anti-social screw-up I am. Abandon her. Come back to ask for money. Drag her into a clusterfuck of murders and violations. Use her as a ride home. Run away forever. God, I'm such a fucking asshole. Did I mention that I need a goddamn drink?

Belatedly I realize that she's taking me back to her place, to the only place since the accident that's ever felt like home. It would have been so damn easy to walk away from my shit-hole of an apartment with its shattered windows and broken door. (Not to mention the person-sized holes in the fucking dry wall. Goddamn Simpson.) "We'll order Chinese. Watch shitty reality tv. C'mon, Jess. A celebration is in order." Maybe I'll leave tomorrow. One night couldn't hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake to the sound of a scream. It's a long second before I realize it's my own. "Birch Street." There was blood. So much blood. I know I must have been dreaming because I'm at home. Well Trish's home. "Higgins Drive." It wasn't Hope that died. It was Trish. In my nightmare, it was her, and I couldn't protect her, couldn't save her. There was so much blood. "Cobalt Lane." That trick seems to have lost all of its healing power since the bastard turned my childhood home into a pawn in his deranged stalker obsession.

"Jess." Her voice is soft and kind, filled with care and concern. My hands clench into fists to hide the trembling from her worried gaze. He's dead. I repeat it like a mantra. Dead. Gone. It doesn't fucking help. I can still see her dying when I blink like a sick movie playing just for me. "Jess, breathe." Right. Oxygen. The breath I manage is stuttered and shallow. God this is pathetic. Get it together, Jones. Her touch is gentle when she relaxes my fist, interlacing our fingers together in a comforting motion.

Those goddamn street names fall from my lips again and again like a broken record. I can't bear to look at her, the woman who has been to Hell and back for me. She deserves someone whole, someone good. It has already been established by about 90% of the tri-state area that I'm a broken, short-fused mess of a woman, and that's putting it lightly. Personally, I think the term 'piece of shit' seems to be more applicable.

"I'm fine. Good. It was… It was nothing. Sorry I woke you."

"How about a drink," Trish offers. Her hand slips from mine, and immediately I feel a little less stable. I'm not the touchy-feely type, never have been. A lifetime ago, my mother used to joke that I had a 6-foot buffer zone. (Now it's more like 15 feet. Wouldn't she be so proud?) Somehow that never applied to Trish; she was always the exception. She would tackle me in a hug or sprawl out with her legs in my lap. She would lean into my shoulder or sneak into my bed after a particularly shitty day. It never bothered me. Not with her.

It took me years to realize that her presence actually calmed me. A simple graze, her fingers against my arm or a nudge of her hip, could center me when I was moments from a Hulk-style rage. Still I've never been able to verbalize the need for that contact. My mouth won't form the words. It's like I'm allergic to the damn vulnerability of it all.

She thinks I'm brave. There's a difference between physical and emotional bravery though. Physically I don't give a shit. My life is negligible. It's easy to be brave when you don't care what happens to you. Emotionally I'm the damn lion from Wizard of Oz, wishing and hoping for some tiny speckle of bravery to exist within my soul. She deserves someone who can be courageous with their emotions. I'd like to pretend mine flat-out don't exist.

"You want to talk about it?" Silently I down the amber liquid in the glass. Maybe it will quiet my mind. I don't have high hopes though. I do have the verbal control to murmur another apology. It's way too early (or late) for anyone to be dealing with this kind of fucked-up trauma. "No need for that," she insists and pours another few fingers into the glass for me. "Can I… Jess, is this going to be like last time?"

I know exactly what she means, and yet to by myself time, I ask for clarification. "You don't need to leave, Jess. There's no one left to protect me from." That's where she's wrong. Kilgrave. Simpson. Dorothy. They may all be crossed off the list of potential threats, but there's always me. And I am the biggest, most disastrous threat to Trish Walker. Especially when she refuses to recognize that. "We can just be us. Not like we were before, but we can move forward. Together. You don't have to run."

It's a lovely thought. One that sparks a warmth inside of me that has nothing to do with the alcohol. For a long second, I let myself imagine what that future would be like- domesticity with Trish Walker. It's what I've always dreamed and something that I can't have. Murderers don't get happy endings, regardless of the motive.

Her gaze is heavy; I know she can read me like a book. She can see what I'm planning like I wrote it all out for her. A hand roughly scrubs her face with a sad sigh. "You broke my heart when you left the last time. I don't think I'll be able to survive it again." My jaw clenches, teeth throbbing with the force. I never meant to do that; I'm just trying to do what's best for her. I'm trying to keep her safe. "The only thing I can reason is that you're fine without me. That you're happier when we're apart."

"Trish," I plead. She knows. She knows without a fucking shadow of a doubt that that isn't true. After all of these years, after everything, she has to know.

"And if that's the case," she continues like I didn't say a damn word. "I want you to be happy. I meant what I said before. You deserve to be happy, Jess. If that's easier for you when I'm not in your life…" Her voice cracks, and my soul aches. "Then there's the door."

"That's not… Jesus, Trish…" All of the emotions I strategically avoid bubble up, and it's the worst. It feels like I'm suffocating with all of it. "I'm not… Fuck, I can't do this! I don't know how to do this! Don't you understand that I'm a fucking time bomb? That everything and everyone around me ends up dead? Do you not see that?" That's always been the one emotion I can handle. Rage. That's what spills out. Everything else- fear, guilt, relief, love, anxiety- all of it morphs into driven anger with the sole purpose of making her see that I'm no good.

Of course, with all of that fucking emotion comes adrenalin because I'm panicked as fuck. I'm going to say something wrong. Of course I will, and it will hurt her unnecessarily. I don't want to be the cause of her pain, but I can't fucking do this! I'm not good with words or emotions. I'm good at punching people and being a goddamn jackass. That's it. That's all.

"How could I be happy without you? Jesus, it's like you don't know that you're my whole goddamn world and that I'd do anything to see you smile. And that's sappy as shit and it's awful and I don't know what to do with that feeling but it has been there for as long as I can remember. All I know is that it will blow up. Something will blow up. It always does, and you'll get hurt or you'll be dead. And it will be my fault. Please understand. Please. I can't risk you, Trish. You mean…" All of my rant fizzles out to nothing, and it's exhausting and terrifying, standing there with my heart on my sleeves. "You mean too much to me," I finish quietly. "I have to protect you, and the only way to do that is to get as far away from you as possible, even if it kills me."

Green eyes stare relentlessly at me, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I only know that my body aches, and emotions are fucking terrifying. Then Trish smirks at me, her trademark what-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look, and I have never been more confused in my life. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

Both hands flat against the counter, she leans into it. "Do you trust me?" My answer is instantaneous. Of course, I do. "Then trust me to know what's best for me. Trust me to make my own decisions. I love that you care. I love that, even after all of these years, you're still looking out for me; don't get me wrong. But I have no desire to be protected from you. My life without you in it- it's not a life I enjoy. It's like my home, my center, is missing. I'm not trying to tie you down or force you to move back in, though you're always welcome to do so. What I'm asking is that you try. When things get hard, and they will, talk to me. We'll figure something out. Just try sticking around. Let me take care of you for once. Can you do that?"

That's a good question. I don't know if I can. "All of that, that's what you want? You want inside my head? It's not a pretty place, and I can tell you right now that I'm no good at letting people in."

"I've always been the exception to your rules," Trish winks, trying to lighten the mood a little. I know her voice though. I can hear what she isn't saying. She's all in if I am. For whatever this is. Whatever this could be. I just have to let her in.

With a deep breath, it sinks in. No running. Not this time. I've tried it my way, and I'm a wreck. Now we'll try it her way, and maybe come out with a little less emotional baggage on the other side.

…This should be fun. And by fun I mean excruciatingly painful. It's worth it, I remind myself. Trish Walker will always be worth it.


End file.
